I’m Not a Regular Mom- I’m a Sports Mom Round 2

I ended my last blog on my adventures with my kids in baby swim and karate and they both met their sad demise. In this blog, I will explore, or narrate how we fumbled into our next round of sporty stardom. My son was in the 4-year-old program learning how to write that Y in his name correctly, and use scissors, and not urinate all over the toilet. He has since at the age of 8, learned how to do two of those things. As he was pissing all over the toilet seat and putting his pants on the wrong way, I discovered a folder in his backpack. Remember when you used to check the folder with such trepidation parents of older kids? Like ohhhh, what has little genius Timmy done today at school? And then when they hit second grade you are like, “what have you even been doing at school? Oh yeah I think I used that folder to curb a coffee spill in my car.” Ahhh those were the times. So yes I spied a paper stuffed snuggly in his dinosaur bag and I was immediately intrigued because it had that bright orange tinge to it and was not the crappy copy paper that schools are usually known for. Instead, it was sort of a pleasant, thicker oak tag. Hmmm I thought, what is happening here? Has he been invited to skip grades, sleepover at an exclusive birthday party? Is this an invitation for some kind of hot Mom book club? Upon further glance, I could see that it was instead a registration form for Gardiner football. At first I thought, football, he is four years old. What is this Texas? Buttttt, there was that part of my brain and I know a lot of my readers, rise above this part in their brain. There was section of my brain that thought, start him now or he can’t, start him now for greatness. AND I know I sound like a caption in Friday Night Lights and I really don’t mean too. I just was so damn excited to get this football journey started. So I filled out the whole orange juice form, and I paid the check which as far as money goes, is actually one of the cheaper sports to do, compared to all the others we had tried, so immediately it had my vote.

Plus also, see the fact that it was my idea, my brain child. When it was Joe’s initiation with karate, you saw where that landed us. Right on our asses, in our gi’s, folding up our belts in our closets and working behind the counter away from the customers at a Big Apple, completely kidding! So September rolled around in kindergarten and Payson was no better at tying his shoes or running in a straight line than he had been a few months ago, but no matter people. He was about to be Tom freakin Brady. So we went to football that first Saturday Morning. When my son began, it was kindergarten to fourth grade, which let me tell you is quite a freakin spread. You have your August birthday in kindergarten who is barely a 5, mixed up with some fourth graders who are wearing deodorant and trying to playdate Christina who’s Mom is never home. It’s a little bit everywhere. Needless to say, we got there and he would not go out on the field and I mean would not. Of course, I had invited people right? My mom was there , I think Joe’s parents, because I wanted them to see the beginnings of a star, but there he was, rooted to the spot in his brand new cleats, unwilling to go out on the field. Luckily, he had a wonderful coach. We have been so blessed with awesome coaches, I think because God saw the lack of the mothership and sent them our way, but we had this awesome coach. His name is Caleb, I don’t know if he would want me to describe him too in depth, so we will just leave him at that. But we spent the majority of the season pretty much watching Payson “observe” the big boys run plays and grab flags and Payson stood off to the side drinking expensive gatorade and picking his nose. Well, our coach was relentless in wanting to get him involved and the very last game of the season (he was out on the field with them) and pretty much grabbed Payson by the hips and pushed him out onto the field like a rocket to run the football field. Payson was so surprised and excited to be doing really anything, that I am pretty sure he spun around in a circle and got flattened by Big Mac the fourth grader. Did I give a rip he was flattened into the ground? You. bet your buns I didn’t. My kid ran the ball you guys. My kid. He was basically in the NFL.

The next year, when I saw that orange paper again, I didn’t even consult Joe, I signed him up again. This time, he was paired up with our neighbor Mike (again blessed by the coaching Gods) and Mike actually got him to do a few runs without physically catapulting him out onto the field by sheer force. He has played for Mike every year since, and has learned so much defensively that we can’t believe it is the same kid that started. I still hold a sliver of cool in Payson’s mind, so he loves to tell me how far he spit with his mouth guard in, how the other other team throws shade outside the third grade classrooms that he resides and how his coach will swear relentlessly and then say “don’t tell your mother I said that”. Little does his coach know, momma swears enough for three fields of football. He gained so much confidence in the years since that beginning K year. I won’t say there was zero nose picking. I’m sure there was some. But I will tell you, as someone who goes to Super Bowl parties, only for the food. I have savored every second of his football time on the field. Football watching is far superior to any dance audition (sorry dance moms). First of all, you bring your own chair. It doesn’t make you feel like you have a metal rod up your ass. Then you put that chair where you want. If you don’t want to sit next to Carole because she spills her iced coffee all over herself and yells loudly into her cell phone the whole football game, guess what you don’t have too. Also it’s fall, and there are pumpkins and donuts and cute sweaters. It’s really a glorious time.

Last year, my son was in third grade and I received an email on whether or not I wanted him to play tackle yet. I voted no, because he already tackles his sister and I would prefer he knows what he is really doing before he tackles kids twice his size, but I cannot wait to see where my gatorade guzzling 8-year-old will go from here.